


Weary is the Head That Bears the Crown...

by Deus_Ex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard's A+ parenting, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Legolas is good with kids too, Parent Thranduil, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3109430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...for the crown is heavy, indeed.  Who knew Thranduil had a soft spot for children, particularly those as rambunctious as Bard's and with patience running thinner than a strand of golden hair?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weary is the Head That Bears the Crown...

If it was one thing that Thranduil had learned in his life, it was that battles never truly ended. The dead were buried and the enemies routed and their corpses burned and their weapons either destroyed or scavenged. The wounded were tended to and families were reunited. In that aspect, yes, blood would eventually cease to taint the soil. But for those whose loved ones did not return, the battle had only just begun. For those who didn't make it back, their families plunged into mourning, their lives forever changed in the blink of an eye. And for the living, there came pomp and ceremony to commemorate victory or drink away defeat. Alliances were forged or broken, diplomatic meetings were called, lines were redrawn, and the headache never waned. He could hardly keep his eyes open during one such bore of a meeting, listening to the dwarves prattle on about how exactly they were going to divide up Smaug's horde. In truth, Thranduil could not care less. He had spent the entirety of the previous and subsequent night burying his dead, placing each of them into a grave by his own hand. His surviving warriors had dug the holes, yes, but as their king who had ordered them into battle and therefore their deaths, he was the one to pay them their final respects. After that, he had just enough time to visit the tents of the healers, where pained wails and exhausted sighs were the only language it seemed they spoke there. Just the appearance of their king seemed to bolster some of the elves' spirits, although he would be lying if he claimed there were no hateful, scornful, accusatory glares present.

_One man in particular looked livid as a healer worked fervently to set his broken leg. Snarling, for a moment, Thranduil was convinced he would spit at him as he slowly paced down the cramped line of injured and the healers stretched far too thin. Instead, he paused and fixed the man in his gaze, wondering how much of this the man truly blamed on him. Sure enough, the man's steely glare backed down a few seconds later under the king's infamous glower, and they both parted ways without coming to blows. Thranduil was informed later that the man had succumbed to his injuries when his broken femur shifted, severed his femoral artery, and resulted in a catastrophic bleedout. He was gone in seconds. Some whispered of tragic accidents; others whispered of supernatural forces seeking to remove foul influences from the king's rank. Thranduil himself liked to think of his dearly departed wife, looking after him from beyond the beyond._

"King Thranduil, your council, please?"

He nearly snapped at the dwarf who interrupted his thoughts, but the moment he turned his tired eyes to the smaller man, gaze full of smoldering rage, he halted. No, he could not even take his exhaustion out on this man, he realized: he was one of Thorin's company, and he looked an odd combination of terrified, run-down, and completely lost. An older dwarf, with a beard as white as snow that curled up at the ends and cheeks as red as cherries, stretched his lips into a thin line that he suspected was originally intended to be a smile and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. Quaint. Touching. Moving. And yet, his frozen heart did not thaw.

"I am afraid I have no council to offer," Thranduil eventually decided, aware that everyone in the room was holding their breath for his answer and he hadn't the foggiest idea of what the question was. "I can only place my demands before you and advocate for them. However, I would advise you, _dwarf,_ to treat the people of Laketown kindly. Do not forget so quickly that it was their kindness that spared you my wrath."

His point had been made: Thranduil still held no love in his heart for dwarves. At least they had the decency to look properly ashamed, the handful that were gathered here. The Elvenking bowed his head into his hand again, aware that he must present an unbecoming picture with his long digits and flat palms covering his eyes and his slumped posture, but he couldn't muster the strength to be ashamed right now. Even if he was perhaps praying to anyone who would listen begging them to call an end to this madness so that he could sleep. He had placed the last of his kinsmen in the ground that evening as the sun was setting a vibrant blood-red on the horizon; could he have not a moment of mourning for himself? Those men had all pledged their lives to him, served him faithfully, never questioned a single order: he knew each one of them by name, as they had served under him and for him for hundreds of years. They were the best of the best, the most loyal elves in the land: and they had been slaughtered like cattle at the hands of creatures that were not much better.

_This one...this one pulled at his heartstrings as he carefully lowered himself to his knees to place him in his grave. His name was Celebrund, and he was a relative of Celebron and his kin. This man had come to him years ago, begging for sanctuary and promising that he would dedicate his life to the king if the king would but grant him shelter. He had been wary at first, of course: his borders had been sealed for years now in hopes of staving off the darkness that pressed ever-nearer to their lands. But he was an elf, and Thranduil could not turn him away. He took him in, gave him a place to live and a job in the armory repairing shields. Over the years, Celebrund proved himself trustworthy and skilled with a blade, and Thranduil came to allow him to join the royal army. More time passed, and suddenly he was standing at the foot of Thranduil's throne, attending to him personally. Thranduil might hazard that this was as close as he came to having a friend in this world._

_He couldn't, though. He could never get too close to anyone. Weakness was unfavorable, and he found himself unable to trust anyone at all with anything at all. He allowed no one to come too close, let he expose himself to an opening for an attack. This man had never minded, though, granting him peace and solitude without question when commanded and idly chatting with his king when his ruler seemed liable to speak. It was this fluidity that Thranduil would so miss; few others had been able to read him and react to him so quickly. As he placed him in the ground and dropped the first handful of soil over his chest, he whispered words of blessing for this man to carry himself safely into the afterlife. With any luck, Mandos would be lenient upon his soul-_

"When was the last time you rested?"

The irritability was barely hidden from his tone as he sighed heavily, raising his head so that his hand fell across his mouth instead of his eyes. Flickering his gaze up to the ceiling for a moment, gray orbs floating over the thrown-together structure as if in scrutiny, the king murmured, "That is none of your concern," as his eyes wandered back to the bowman, in a tone so measured that Bard ought to be frightened from that alone. Thranduil was legendary for his temper, but in an odd way: that no one had ever seen its full, unleashed fury. Always so in-control, always so even, and yet the storm raging behind his eyes was painfully obvious. His anger was always more terrifying when it was focused, because that meant that there was no hope of dispersing some of the force onto others around to spare oneself the blow. When Thranduil brought the hammer of punishment down, it fell with deadly accuracy and crushing force.

Still, the bargeman wasn't impressed. "You can barely keep your eyes open. Excuse yourself and sleep, no one here will blame you."

"But I would blame myself," he replied promptly, tone becoming heavier as his glare intensified. Now Bard seemed to back off, turning to face the table once more and set both of his elbows on the rough wooden surface to weave his fingers together and rest his crooked knuckles against his lips. Unburdened of the prying aura, Thranduil was able to breathe the smallest sigh of relief. At least now the smallest bit of pressure was removed. It was a small blessing, but if he didn't count the small ones he wouldn't have many to count at all. He had a duty here, and as much as his duties often exhausted him, he had been bearing them for long enough that he had long since learned how best to weather the storm.

Fifteen minutes later, his usual method of waiting things out was proving fruitless. Around and around in circles they went, the dwarves' indecisiveness and the humans' inexperience proving to be stumbling blocks for all. The wizard Gandalf was doing his best to nudge each party along what he must have thought was the best course of action, but it was to no avail. These rulers were all so wet behind the ears that they couldn't even see how pointless this entire charade was. The headache was worsening, his muscles were screaming, and his brain tried to shut down every single time he blinked his eyes. This was torture of a new breed-and he had faced plenty of pain in his lifetime already.

"Alright, enough!" he declared, setting his hands firmly upon the table. Instantly, breath hitched and ceased, held in throats and chests; movements froze, eyes widened, and Thranduil commanded the room. "Now, you want enough to rebuild your city-" he began, turning to Bard-"your kin were each promised a share of the treasure for this journey-" here he turned to the cluster of dwarves-"you also promised a share to the burglar-" ah, right; no hobbit present; he looked to Gandalf instead-"and the only reason I am here is to reclaim what was stolen from me generations ago. So, my proposal is thus: hand me the single chest of which I seek. Give the shares that were supposed to go to the deceased dwarves to the men to rebuild their town. It goes to Bard, not the Master of the town, no one will ever see it then. Divide up the remainder between the surviving members of your kin, plus the Hobbit, and one extra. Give the extra to Dain Ironfoot for his aid in the battle. And we can table discussions of alliances and trade for another day." As tempted as he was to stand up and dismiss the whole lot of them, he held, slowly staring down every member of the room to ensure that he held their attention. Each and every eye was rounded and fixed on him; good. They'd heard him loud and clear. "Is this acceptable to all of you?"

"It is acceptable for me and my people," Bard immediately replied. The concern on his face was met with cold indifference. The king could care less if Bard fretted about like a worried father trying to see him to bed. Bard had plenty of people to worry over, least of all the Elvenking.

"I accept," the hobbit piped up. He turned finally to the dwarves and their council, raising an eyebrow with no other hint of expression on his face.

"That is fair," the older, white-bearded dwarf announced.

And what a mercy, to hear such a decree! It was all he could do to keep from dropping to his knees and praising the gods at the realization that all that stood between himself and his slumber was a short walk through the camp. His guards, a pair of Silvan elves well-trained in their duties, awaited him outside. It was for appearances and ceremony only, but they could prove useful in deflecting anyone who sought to waylay the king with thanks or invitations or questions or problems. Nodding once, Thranduil pushed himself up from the table, trying to hide the drag of his drained limbs as he left his chair and the tent altogether. "Tomorrow, at midday, we reconvene." With the words scarcely beating the recoil of the tent flap as it fell back over the opening in the king's wake, Thranduil left the impromptu meeting and finally released his sigh of contentment. "Tired" didn't even begin to cover it. This was a bone-deep weariness that he was convinced would not leave him for years.

His guards ushered him all too eagerly through the camp, escorting him with a briskness and coldness that immediately warded off anyone who sought the king's audience. One person appeared prepared to approach anyway, but a single hand raised in deterrence was suffice to have them stepping aside and bowing as the Elvenking passed. Once back at his tent, Thranduil immediately relieved himself of his heavy outer cloak, carelessly draping it across a chair and continuing to shamelessly disrobe as he commanded the guards that flanked the entrance: "I am not to be disturbed until sunrise. One hour after that if my absence can be tolerated. If anyone other than my son should come seeking my audience, they are to be given instructions to return at a later time. I am only to be awoken if my son returns, or if enemies are spotted."

"Yes, my lord," the first elf echoed subserviently.

"My lord, do you require a healer?" the second inquired.

"No," Thranduil answered immediately. He was aware of his people's concern, as no one had seen to him after the battle-well, they had seen to him enough to wipe the blood from his face and inquire after any pain or injuries. No, nothing other than the usual, occasional pangs and aches from his scars. At this, Thranduil halted his train of thought and fully disrobed save for the leggings he wore under his armor, disappearing into the separate section of the tent that housed his bed.

"Dismissed," he barked as the divider closed again behind him. The resounding, enthusiastic response of, "Yes, my lord," was not even completed before he had collapsed into his bed, rolled over once to gather the blankets around him, and promptly fell into a deep, long-lusted-for slumber.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
If left to his own devices, the king likely would have slept for days. After the grueling battle, he had slept for a handful of hours and then risen again to bury his dead. He had hoped to be done by sundown that same day, but had instead worked through the entire day, entire night, and into the next morning. They had lost more than they thought, which resulted in more work and less hands to do it. By the time the heart-rending work was complete, his back and shoulders strained and his eyes were dry and tired. And the sun had risen again on the horizon, leaving him subject to the whims of the other delegates. They had called for meeting after meeting, and each one increased his desire to flip the table and denounce them all fools and just collapse where he was and sleep. As he awoke now, he still marveled at how he had managed to restrain himself so far. It was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn't wrung the dwarves' necks last night. He simply didn't understand how creatures with lives so much shorter than his own thought they could afford the time to pitter around in circles all day!

"My lord?"

"Awake," he growled in response.

"Presentable?" his guard gently pressed.

"I have yet to step from my bed, if that is the question."

It would seem it was; still, he received another response: "Bard of Laketown seeks an audience, my lord. Shall I have him return later?"

"That depends," the king answered evenly, finally casting aside the warm swaddle of the blankets before he could think too much about doing so and develop an aversion to the mere thought of the action. "How long does he want to wait?"

"I will ask him."

Left alone once more, Thranduil forced himself to his feet, bare against the soil. He had declined any temporary footing, not even a carpet to place under his bed. The soil was grassy enough, and it was a good excuse to get the blades of emerald between his toes again. When all of this was over, he was taking his leave of the courts for an entire day and going for a walk so deep in the woods that even the ghost of his wife wouldn't be able to find him. It had been far too long since he had last ventured into his own lands, and this minuscule taste of it was entirely insufficient to slake his thirst to reconnect with the earth that had born him.

He was just pulling a heavy black robe about his shoulders when his guard returned to his chambers again. This time, the other elf did not pull back the divider, but simply informed him, "He will wait."

It was only because he was walled off from prying eyes that the king indulged in a sneer for his own pleasure. Of course he would wait, the stubborn mortal. "Very well," he said evenly. "Tell him I will be with him shortly. And I'll have the time, if you have it."

"One and a half hours after sunrise, sir."

Half an hour late. But he wouldn't complain. "Fine. Thank you."

The footsteps traveling back across the tent would be inaudible to human ears, but he tracked them all the way across the structure to the other end. This time, he heard the soft murmur of voices, but chose not to listen closely enough to pick out the words. Instead, he pulled another robe around his shoulders, washed his face, and straightened out his hair. With the light silver circlet crown upon his head once more, he emerged into the tent where his makeshift meeting room had been set up. Nothing more than a table with a few chairs around it and a more ornate, high-backed chair set on a slightly-raised platform to serve as his throne, the room itself was austere and plain, but served its purpose well. Thranduil was aware that no one else had anything even remotely this accommodating set up.

"Bard of Laketown," he greeted abruptly, going immediately to the bowl of fruit someone had quite subtly left in the center of the table and plucking an apple from the top. "You seem to enjoy being here more than I do."

"Forgive me," the human began, his voice sounding anything but repentant, "but as a newly-appointed ruler, I find myself quite lost in proceedings and would rather conduct business in a face-to-face, straightforward manner. I don't like how everyone seems to have someone appointed to do things for them." The man was standing in the center of the wide expanse of canvas and soil, looking lost and uncomfortable and out of place. Still, he looked determined and strong; Thranduil could respect that.

"You will find no such foolishness with the elves," Thranduil declared, his voice deepening to a haughtier tone. Even as he made a slow circle around the diameter of the tent, his eyes were shifted towards the center to rest on Bard. Though his hands were occupied by the red fruit he had picked up and clasped behind his back, there was no lack of certainty in anyone's mind that, in a moment, those hands could be the bearer of a weapon and wielding it with deadly precision. "I lead my troops from the front lines, I make all decisions personally, and the only time I send a messenger or an emissary is to request a meeting, not to conduct it." Pausing, he turned away from Bard to sink his teeth into the apple that filled his hand. Immediately, sweet juice overran its skin, but none smeared the king's lips or fingers. Spinning elegantly and dropping into the throne at the opposite end of the tent, he added, "It is refreshing indeed to see a man with the same mindset as myself. So if we are indeed forsaking ceremony and pleasantries and skipping the time-wasting portion of this encounter, why, pray tell, are you here?"

For a moment, Bard appeared entranced. The lounging pose that Thranduil had adopted would look sloppy and lackadaisical on anyone else, yet his slumped shoulders, rounded back, crossed legs, and sprawled arms only looked just carefree enough to be relaxed, and confident enough to command more space than was necessary. This was a man so secure in his rule and his reputation that he felt he didn't need to stand on ceremony with something so trivial as his posture; it also spoke volumes of exactly how much he cared what other thought of him. The fact that he was idly eating breakfast while conducting this meeting was just cookies.

"I-came to thank you for your intervention at the meeting last night," he finally stammered when at last he found his voice. If the Elvenking noticed the trance he had put him in, he said nothing nor acknowledged it. "I fear that with so many of us being untried and unprepared, your council may be required again in the future."

"Undoubtedly."

Perhaps the retort was unnecessarily curt and dismissive, but patience was not something running in abundance at current. It was miles better than it had been last night, but Thranduil was still weary in body and mind. It was odd, this sensation of tiredness: it wasn't the pinch in his back of a man who had been bent over his work all day, or the burn in his legs of too much travel on foot. It was instead an all-over ache with no origin and no conclusion, one that screaming at him with every movement to go back to sleep and rest more. His mind, too, cried for respite, the dull throb behind his eyes just barely kept at bay by the few hours of sleep he'd managed to catch last night. Currently, the only thing keeping him pressing forward was the fact that, of all the higher-ups currently vying for his attention, this one was perhaps the least annoying, if not the most persistent.

At first, Bard did seem rather put off by the remark. It passed quickly, however, when he apparently came to the conclusion that the Elvenking was, as always, correct. Of course he was! There was scarce a time when an argument could even be made. After three thousand years of life, two thirds of it spent as a ruler, he'd come to understand anything that Middle-Earth could throw at him. Nothing surprised him anymore; he was perhaps one of the only beings alive who could claim that they had indeed seen it all. "I would much appreciate your council on a personal level as well," Bard finally confessed. It appeared to be a struggle to spit the words out, and if the human noticed that Thranduil's repetitive motions in chewing the apple he'd bitten into had slowed he didn't note it. Instead, he averted his gaze and began to slowly pace back and forth in front of the seated king, blissfully ignorant of the piercing eyes suddenly fixed on him with significantly more interest.

"I have never held a position of power before," Bard began, bowing his head as if the ground was going to crack and fall away from him if he didn't keep an eye on it. "The closest thing to authority I have is commanding my children to go to bed, but even that is waning as they age. I haven't the faintest clue what I'm doing...and these people have entrusted me with their lives and their welfare. Surely you, of all of us, would know what an incredible burden that is!"

_All too well,_ he thought to himself. Bard finally paused in his pacing and turned to raise his head again, facing the Elvenking square and meeting his eyes. It was difficult to hold such an intimidating gaze, one that made you feel like you were being bared to the soul, but he resolved to show the king of Mirkwood that if nothing else, he had courage. At his silence, Bard seemed to flounder, looking for any hint of Thranduil's thoughts in his stony visage. But he could find none: the king of elves may as well also be the king of ice for all he disclosed in his expression. At last, Bard reached a decision, and opted to soldier on, forcing a reaction from the Elven king if he had to. "Your Majesty, the dwarves have chosen someone to officially lead them," he stated. Sure enough, the tiniest spark of curiosity ignited behind Thranduil's veil of disconnect and apathy. Pressing his advantage, Bard spoke again: "He has experience, he has bloodline, and he has people behind him. I fear that between the two of you, the shrewd little hobbit, and the wizard Gandalf, I will be completely out of my depth." The truth, Thranduil noted, but opted to spare Bard the blow of having that knowledge thrust forcefully into his face.

"I come to you seeking an alliance."

This time, he earned the slightest quirk of a single brow and an inclination of the head. A sigh of relief rushed out of him in a shuddering wave: at least, if nothing else, the king was listening. "Your people came to the aid of mine, and I will not discount that or forget it. I would like to ensure that the benefit we can provide each other will be mutual. The Elves and Laketown have had trade relations before; we can expand on them to forge new bonds between our peoples. That, and...I would very much like to draw from your vast experience and knowledge. As I stated prior, I am now outmatched in experience, both on the battlefield and in the diplomacy. If you would continue to to extend your generosity to us men, I would ensure that you were repaid whenever you should have need of our services. We would do whatever we could to help."

It would be easy to discount him as untrustworthy-but then he would be doing what everyone else would be doing. Writing this man off. This human's short time in charge of these people could flourish or wane, and Thranduil realized that it was in fact up to him at this point. If he offered Bard his help, he could make both of their nations prosperous and friendly. If he declined, he burned a bridge that could have gained him much. In his lifetime, the handful of decades a man might preside over his peers was quite short indeed, and didn't much affect him. But he could use this. He could set up for something here. Perhaps they could lay a groundwork now that others would be hard-pressed to undo, and could be encouraged to continue building on. He wouldn't see any significant return on his investment immediately. But it might be worth it in the long-term.

"Very well," he finally declared, at last straightening up to a more regal posture. Bard only found it all the more intimidating to see Thranduil at his full height, looking like he might in fact be prepared or preparing to make a move. Seeing him relaxed was nerve-wracking enough, as his control over the room could not be denied. But now, to see those serpentine movements and catch a glimpse of the fine control and deadly strength beginning to come alive...it reinforced his helpless, fragile nature against a man who was practically a god.

"I will consider your words and your merit and come up with something I believe we will both find agreeable. I may send for you in the near future so that we may discuss our agreement."

"Thank you, sir," Bard sputtered, tripping over the address. How exactly did one king address another? "Your kindness and assistance in this time of dire need has saved countless lives, and I cannot begin to-"

_"Da!"_

Ah, so close!

The flinch that Bard allowed to show was more than enough explanation for what was going on. The bowman was berating himself instantly for neglecting his duties as a father, despite knowing full well that there was nothing more he could possibly do in the midst of all this-far more people than three were dependent on him now. Looking desperately, sheepishly, to the king, he at least had the decency to look embarrassed as he once again winced away from the loud crash and screaming of his youngest daughter. "I am a father, too, Bard," Thranduil remarked, and if Bard wanted to, he could have seen a tiny smirk playing upon the king's lips. "Although it has been many years since my son was small, my knees still recall with great clarity the damage children can wreak on them when they get a good running start. Go; tend to your children. Clearly they are missing you."

As if on cue, the flaps of the tent burst open in a mighty snap and explosion of white canvas. A flurry of snow preceded Tilda into the tent, giggling madly and tumbling over herself in her excitement. The moment he saw her, Bard swept forward and, with expert handling, scooped her off the ground and pulled her in to rest against his hip. While the gesture was fatherly and tender, his voice and expression were stern as he scolded, "Tilda, what did I tell you about roaming the camp?! Especially like a ruffian! Running around, screaming, just flying through random doorways like they're yours to explore! We have to show some manners, alright? This is a dangerous place with a lot of people, and-"

"Da, who's that-?"

"Tilda, focus, please-"

"But, Da, we were only playing!"

"Wait, you and who were playing what?"

"One of the elves! We were playing tag! Hey, he kinda looks like him-!"

Just then-Bard would later swear they had planned it this way, and Thranduil would smirk and confirm-a blonde elf every bit as fair as the one standing before him jogged easily through the opening in the tent, not breathing at all, a playful smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. But where Thranduil was powerful in a lithe and graceful and refined way, this younger elf-for he clearly was younger, and Bard couldn't have explained how he knew it-still had a warmth about him that many elves seemed to have lost. Hot on his heels came the other two members of Bard's family, both of them out of breath but only one of them looking furious.

"Tilda!" Sigrid barked sharply, in such a tone that Bard could have sworn his wife was speaking. "You have been told time and time again not to bother these people! They have very kindly come to our aid and helped us and our people when we needed it, and they are here now to continue to lend us aid in cleaning up this mess! Have you forgotten that it was only yesterday that you-?"

"Whooooooooooa!" Apparently the boy, a bit younger but even more bright-eyed, had finally given up on restraining himself and erupted in a splendid outburst. "Da, you didn't tell us you were friends with the king! Mister Elf-King, sir, where is your reindeer-?"

"It's an elk, Bain," Bard hissed, grabbing his son by the hand and beginning to pull him towards the exit of the tent. "Don't be rude-"

"Think nothing of it," Thranduil suddenly interjected. The change in demeanor was so abrupt and so radically different that Bard had to stop and turn and restrain the urge to smack himself-with what free hand, he didn't know, but he almost wanted to as if to ensure that he hadn't imagined the shift in the king. And now he was stepping towards them, fairly gliding over the soil, to bend at his waist to look Sigrid in the eyes. To her credit, she set her jaw and lifted her chin and squared her shoulders and met his gaze fiercely: she was a strong young woman, this Thranduil could tell immediately. Bard had raised a tough young lady, and ought to be proud.

"Child, how old are you?" he asked, voice quiet and nearly a murmur as he addressed Sigrid.

"Seventeen, your highness." She spoke with all the right words but with a clipped tone and Bard's defiance lurking immediately underneath the surface. Thranduil was far from offended; instead, he gave a soft smile, one that reached his eyes, and at last, the ice surrounding the Elvenking seemed to melt.

"Far too young to be so worried all the time." Smiling widening for a moment, he set his hands on her shoulders and nodded once to her, pointedly, keeping their gazes locked until she, too, softened and relaxed her posture. Moving to the second child, addressed as Bain, Thranduil asked, "And you?"

"Twelve!"

"Sir!" Bard hissed, but Thranduil waved him off with a dismissive flick of the wrist.

"Twelve! My, it has been a long time since my Legolas was that age. But I seem to recall him being just as rambunctious and headstrong as you." With the same kind smile, Thranduil placed a hand on Bain's free shoulder and told him, "You must remember to not just enjoy your youth, but to look after your sisters, as well. They care deeply for you; ensure that you care for them in turn."

And finally, the youngest, Tilda. She was beaming already, practically vibrating from excitement. She was positively giddy when Thranduil turned to her, so much so that she anticipated his question and eagerly squeaked, "Eight!"

"Eight years...so little time, so young!" Thranduil proclaimed, and Bard could swear he saw nostalgia reflected in the king's eyes. Who would have ever thought that Thranduuil, the Ice King of the Elves of Mirkwood, would have a soft spot for young mortal children? "Never lose your enthusiasm, dear. For the world will seek to steal it, jealous of your radiance and light. Share it with the world, but do not let them take it." Taking one of her tiny hands in his own, giving it a brief squeeze, Thranduil allowed the bowman's family one last true smile before dismissing them: "Children, do please heed your father. He works hard to ensure a good life for you. Off with you, now, your father is very busy!"

"Come on," Bard prompted as Bain made to linger. With eyes like saucers, he could not seem to tear his gaze away from the tall, slender elves. The younger one stood by Thranduil now, and Bard was certain now that they were father and son. With the way they bore themselves, glanced at each other, and held themselves around each other, they could not be anything else.

The younger of the two noticed Bain watching; without so much as a moment's hesitation, he offered, "I can walk them back, if you have other duties to attend to."

Tilda immediately cried out her joyous assent, and Bain just as quickly joined her. Sigrid maintained the role of the stern guardian, looking to her father for permission or guidance.

"My son will take good care of them," Thranduil assured him as Bain wriggled free and darted to the elf. Sighing, unsure if it was relief or worry or exasperation that he felt, Bard set Tilda down just in time for her to run to Thranduil's son as well.

"Thank you, Da!" she squeaked, getting a running start and leaping into the elf's shoulders. He hardly seemed to feel it, laughing and straightening and taking Bain's hand. He offered Sigrid his other, but she gave him a polite, reserved smile and gently declined. The young elf saw the small pack of children out, truly smiling as the younger two bombarded him with questions. Thranduil watched them go, an unspeakable warmth in the depths of his light eyes, for once not icy in their weight. Bard could not bear to break the spell, for he had never seen the Elvenking look so...human.

"You should probably be on your way," Thranduil finally said, sounding so soft and light that Bard almost wanted to ask if children had magical sway over elves. "I have kept you for too long. I will send for you when I have an agreement drawn up, and we can fuss over details then. In the mean time, I believe the rest of the involved parties have a bit more business to discuss, so I will see you once more tonight when the meeting I rather abruptly adjourned last night reconvenes."

At this, Bard couldn't help a crooked grin, and this time, he didn't even have the decency to look properly ashamed. "We all wanted to get out of there," he admitted. "Hell, we all just wanted to make some progress..." Raising a hand, he pushed his fingers through his tangled, shaggy locks of black hair and grimaced at the feeling of grime and filth caking his hair. He had yet to do more than wash the worst of the gore from his skin and fall into bed, and he was sure that was exactly what he looked like. "Thank you. Again."

"You may count on my assistance this evening as well," Thranduil added, already waving Bard off. "With any luck, we can conclude this political arena tonight. Until then."

"Good day, sir."

It was several minutes after Bard had departed that Thranduil found himself once again reclining in his throne, quite comfortable with his half-eaten apple from before in one hand and a glass of water nearby. Bard of Laketown...once again, this man had been the cause of his cold, king-like exterior falling down around them like the rubble of the Dale had crashed around their ears just yesterday. Children were such a treasure, and he took to being a father so naturally, wrangling the children with a firm, but gentle hand. He remembered with mixed fondness and chagrin his own first days of being a father: clueless, wondering how on earth he was supposed to keep his newborn infant son from chewing on his hair, he boy's own flaxen fuzz the exact same shade as his own platinum. At the time, it had been an annoyance, but now, he missed the days when Legolas was small enough to hold in his arms.

He spared the entryway a glance when the flap swung back to admit a block of daylight and the tall figure of an Elven guard, stooped slightly to clear the doorway. Galion was the only one who dared enter without knocking, and only because he proved to be stubborn enough around Thranduil that the king had simply learned to pick his battles. He'd never admit it, but there was perhaps a soft spot in his heart for his aide of several hundred years. "My lord, one of your commanders with a report."

"Send them in."

It was never over. But at least that meant that the good moments would continue to come alongside the bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, God, this is taking on a life of its own. I have another piece in the works and more planned...this might eventually turn into some slash. I think these two make a cute couple, right? Or they could? Oh, God, it's growing legs and running away. Someone send help, I can't stop. @_@


End file.
